HiLobrow is proud to present the twelfth installment of Robert Waldron’s novel The School on the Fens. New installments will appear each Saturday for thirty-eight weeks. CLICK HERE to read all installments published thus far.

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12

With its window shades pulled down, the Thompson home looked sad and somber. Iris and I had enjoyed many happy evenings here with Bill and Eileen. A beautiful Colonial home graced with spacious rooms and high ceilings, ideal for entertaining. Bill boasted that they did not build houses like his anymore, so substantially solid that if you sneezed, you were not heard from cellar to attic as in the “new and better” homes now being constructed in Boston.

After the third ring, Eileen opened the door.

“John, what a pleasant surprise!” she said, pecking me on the cheek. She had short hair, a slim figure, and hazel eyes framed by fans of crow’s feet.

Boxes were strewn everywhere and much of the furniture was draped in sheets.

“Excuse the mess. I’m moving to Florida to be near my oldest daughter Janet.”

“A drastic move, isn’t it?” I said, sorry to lose her to such distance.

“Too many memories here,” she said, leading me into the kitchen. “I see Bill everywhere, and if I don’t move on, I’ll be mourning for the rest of my life.”

While she made sandwiches and brewed fresh coffee, we reminisced about Bill and the good times. We recalled the night we had seen Vanessa Redgrave in Chekhov’s The Three Sisters at the American Repertory Theater. After the play, under autumn trees, we sauntered our way down Brattle Street in a Chekhovian melancholy to the Harvest. Our dessert just arrived when Miss Redgrave and her escort entered the dining room to sit down at the table right next to us.

Eileen carried a tray into the den, and we sat down.

“Eileen, I hope you don’t mind,” I said, “but I have to discuss Bill’s mark book with you.”

“Funny you mention it,” she said, “Miss Murkin telephoned me about it, but I haven’t a clue where it is. Bill submitted his grades before his accident. Why the fuss?”

“For over a month before Bill’s death, we hadn’t a full night’s sleep because of those phone calls.”

“Phone calls?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I’m convinced it’s got something to do with —”

Her hands were trembling so much so she had to set her coffee cup down.

“I haven’t told anyone, John, but —”

“What is it, Eileen?”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “Bill walked in on Farrell and Tim having sex. I tried to get Bill to report it to the school committee, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

Tears gushed from her eyes, and I handed her my handkerchief.

“Eileen, this should have been reported,” I said, trying hard to banish from my mind’s eye the image of Tim and Farrell having sex.

“I argued for weeks with Bill, but he said it came down to his word against theirs. See, it was consensual — and if he said anything, they both said they’d deny it.” With an unsteady hand, she poured coffee into my cup.

“Bill should’ve retired,” she said. “If he had, he’d be alive today. He hated confrontation, and he would pay the price later with his ulcers and blood pressure. God, he was too good for that goddamn school.”

She raised her hands to her face and sobbed.

“I urged him to report it,” she continued, “but he insisted that it would be a waste of time. Or Farrell would somehow twist everything around, and Bill would become the victim. And he was a victim, wasn’t he?”

I nodded.

“John, when I tell people about what an awful place Classical is, they don’t believe me.”

“It’s hard for people to face reality.”

“Timothy has the upper hand, doesn’t he? I mean he’s a minor, and he could get Farrell into a lot of trouble.”

“Tim and Farrell, my God, I can’t believe it. You think you know someone but —”

I had never thought Farrell was gay, nor Tim for that matter. Farrrell had a girlfriend for years. As for Tim: his drunken escapade at the prom last year now began to make sense, as well as his recent cryptic remarks about himself.

“Someone must stop Farrell,” Eileen said. “He shouldn’t be around young people.”

I thought it was unlikely. Farrell would flourish, remain unchallenged and retire someday to a loud chorus of praise. At his death he will be eulogized as one of Classical’s greatest headmasters, and after an appropriate period of time, I wouldn’t be surprised to see his surname emblazoned upon the auditorium frieze, entering forever the pantheon of Classical High mythology.

About the Author

Robert Waldron taught English Literature at a prestigious Boston public high school for over three decades. He is the author of seventeen books, six of them devoted to the life and work of Thomas Merton. He created a "walking with" series of books that addressed such writers as Kathleen Norris, Henri Nouwen, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and James Martin. He has also written three novels, including the critically acclaimed The Secret Dublin Diary of Gerard Manley Hopkins. He is an award-winning writer on modern spirituality and the recipient of four fellowships from the National Endowment for the Humanities.